


La Beauté

by Tyrion_Lannister



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon Era, Crossdressing, Intercrural Sex, Little bit of angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-13
Updated: 2013-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-14 19:58:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/840787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyrion_Lannister/pseuds/Tyrion_Lannister
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Kneel.” Grantaire’s voice is low, commanding, and it doesn’t even cross Jean Prouvaire’s mind to disobey. With a murmured oui, monsieur, he softly lowers himself to the ground in a sibilant flurry of petticoats and flimsy lace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	La Beauté

**Author's Note:**

> For the wonderful yosb over on tumblr. 
> 
> Also, for the purposes of this fic, we're just gonna have to pretend that 'La Beauté' was written a good 30 years before it actually was.

_Je suis belle, ô mortels! comme un rêve de pierre,_  
Et mon sein, où chacun s’est meurtri tour à tour,  
Est fait pour inspirer au poète un amour  
Eternel et muet ainsi que la matière.

 _Je trône dans l’azur comme un sphinx incompris;_  
J’unis un coeur de neige à la blancheur des cygnes;  
Je hais le mouvement qui déplace les lignes,  
Et jamais je ne pleure et jamais je ne ris.

 _Les poètes, devant mes grandes attitudes,_  
Que j’ai l’air d’emprunter aux plus fiers monuments,  
Consumeront leurs jours en d’austères études;

 _Car j’ai, pour fasciner ces dociles amants,_  
De purs miroirs qui font toutes choses plus belles:  
Mes yeux, mes larges yeux aux clartés éternelles!

**La Beauté, Charles Baudelaire.**

“Kneel.” Grantaire’s voice is low, commanding, and it doesn’t even cross Jean Prouvaire’s mind to disobey. With a murmured  _oui, monsieur_ , he softly lowers himself to the ground in a sibilant flurry of petticoats and flimsy lace.

He bows his head, wide blue eyes focusing intently on the rough grain of the wooden floorboards, letting out a sharp gasp when Grantaire’s large, calloused hand comes up to grasp his fine-boned jaw and force his gaze upwards. “Regardes-moi.  _Look at me_ , Jehan.”

Jehan tries, an embarrassed blush appearing on the apples of his cherubic cheeks – complementing the faint smear of rouge that already marks them – as he struggles to keep his composure in the face of Grantaire’s staunch, unfailing scrutiny.

“Come now,  _mon petit Prouvaire_. What have you to fear? I do not bite unless asked.” His tone is light, the words more than likely intended as humorous, but Jehan cannot entirely suppress the shudder that passes through him at the sound of Grantaire’s gruff voice, roughened by years of cigarettes and excessive drinking in seedy establishments and back alley bars. He himself does not know if the aborted reaction is a result of desire or apprehension.  _Perhaps_ , he will think later,  _it was both_.

“Je n’ai pas peur.” He is lying, but Grantaire is kind, and it goes unquestioned. The hand lets go of his face and he breathes in deeply, inhaling the odour of stale smoke, of unwashed bedding and frantic nightly activities under the cover of benevolent moonlight and omnipotent stars. Grantaire’s tight grip has left his soft skin tingling, fingertips pressing purplish bruises into the childlike face, unmarred by facial hair and otherwise as smooth and blemish-free as a woman’s. Grantaire steps away, leaving Jehan’s line of sight as he moves behind his back, and he has to bite his rouge-reddened lip to stifle the urge to turn and track his progress. Instead he holds himself still, head lowered and knees growing sore as he rests on the hard ground, listening carefully for the creaking of the worn floorboards. Regardless of his caution, he is startled by Grantaire’s unexpected proximity when the man finally speaks, mere inches from Jehan’s right ear, and he jumps slightly, his heart pattering rapidly against the thin confines of his narrow chest.

“I would rid you of your clothes now. With your consent,  _bien sur_.” Jehan hesitates, then nods once, sending his tousled blond curls – unfashionably long, but singularly necessary to Jehan’s sense of self – tumbling down his slender, lily-white neck. There’s a minute pause, which seems nonetheless to stretch on into infinity, then suddenly he feels Grantaire’s large hands at his throat, unpinning the brooch that fastens the ends of his shawl over the dip of his collarbone, an inch or two below the thrumming pulse point that serves to evidence the feverish pounding of his blood. The soft whisper of lace as the shawl is dragged across Jehan’s oversensitive skin, trailing over the birdlike bones of his shoulders, makes him shiver, and he is suddenly aware of the pressing hardness beneath his chemise. He shifts uncomfortably, each tiny movement causing the light fabric to brush against him, sensuous, tantalising to the point of torment. Grantaire’s hands tighten for an interminable second around his frail neck, and then are gone, so quickly that Jehan wonders if he imagined them there in the first place.

Next to go is the thin cotton camisole, pulled none too gently over his head, leaving Jehan in naught but a corset and skirts. He has been underdressed all evening, both men knowing that the disguise of womanhood is a charade that can only extend so far; and yet, Jehan feels the slow removal of each of his garments keenly, his courage departing along with each layer of cloth. This attire was designed to allure, to entice, and Jehan, stripped of their seductive power, feels once more as though he is simply the vulnerable young boy of five years past, new to the city and its heady delights.

Goosebumps erupt on his pale flesh now that his upper back and shoulders have been exposed to the cool evening air, a sensation which is only worsened by the rough stroke of Grantaire’s knuckles against his back as he unlaces the heavy corset. His movements are unexpectedly gentle and well-practiced, and Jehan is momentarily taken aback, before he remembers the skill Grantaire holds within his long artist’s fingers. Those hands, large, roughened and battle-scarred, are nonetheless more than capable of removing a corset with finesse, of detailing a landscape with the smallest of paintbrushes, of cradling a fledgling without causing it the least damage. This thought causes Jehan to relax minutely, although he undoubtedly would not be able to pinpoint the exact reason for his sudden compliance, and he leans back slightly into Grantaire’s solid warmth. When Grantaire speaks, Jehan can hear the proud smile implicit in his words. “Voilà, mon garçon. Je suis fier de toi.”

The corset drops away, falling to the ground without ceremony, and Jehan crosses his arms over his bare chest, nipples hardening as Grantaire runs a hand softly down his side, curving gently along the line of his ribs. “Ah, but you are beautiful…” His voice is a whisper, his words a caress, slipping gently underneath Jehan’s skin and lodging in his overburdened heart. Still he kneels, uncertain, until Grantaire stands suddenly and motions him upwards with a smooth gesture. “Debout.”

Jehan raises himself with some difficulty, wincing at the ache in his knees. He stands immobile for a moment, forcing himself to meet Grantaire’s eye, willing himself not to blush. He knows that his erection is prominent beneath the flimsy skirts he wears, and is even more painfully aware that Grantaire is still fully clothed.

As if reading his mind, a gentle smile appears on Grantaire’s roughly hewn features, and he runs a hand through his short dark hair before dropping it to the buttons of his waistcoat, undoing them with much the same casual grace he had demonstrated in undressing Jehan. In a matter of seconds, the waistcoat is slipping off of his burly, sun-tarnished shoulders, followed swiftly by his shirt and undershirt, leaving him standing before Jehan bare-chested, in naught but his trousers. Jehan swallows, feeling like the inexperienced virgin he very much is not, eyes roaming over the form in front of him. Whereas Jehan is naturally slight, his narrow-waisted, feminine build apparent even without the restrictions of a corset, Grantaire is physically imposing in every way possible. Lines of corded muscle bulge in his arms and a thick trail of curly hair covers his chest, descending down to his stomach, tanned and scarred from stories Jehan is not privy to. Grantaire is an epitome of daunting masculinity, an unwitting Samson, and Jehan trembles – a mite fearfully – in thrilling anticipation of what is to come.

Grantaire crosses the room slowly, coming to a halt only when he is close enough to grip Jehan’s slender waist and gracelessly pull the other man towards him. Jehan stumbles inelegantly with a surprised, high-pitched yelp, gentle hands landing on Grantaire’s broad chest as he is enveloped in strong arms, and he doesn’t quite regain his breath before Grantaire’s mouth descends over his own, forcefully taking a kiss that Jehan isn’t entirely sure he was offering. Grantaire’s prickly, over-long stubble stings against his porcelain flesh, leaving harsh red marks to enhance the fresh bruises on his jaw, but Jehan finds himself opening regardless, lips parting with a stifled moan that contains within it all the secret words and sentiments whispered between lovers in the dead of night, transient emotions that Jehan would not be able to completely define even if he were to write a hundred thousand odes. Grantaire swallows the sound greedily and pushes harder, his tongue slipping sinuously between Jehan’s reddened lips as one hand rises to fist itself in the younger man’s fine blond curls and the other slips down to rest in the girlish curve of Jehan’s lower back. They kiss hungrily, still standing in the centre of the room, until Jehan’s heart is racing at a frantic gallop and his legs feel weak; only then, at last, does Grantaire step back, eyes sweeping over Jehan’s slender form in an appraising gaze that makes his skin prickle and hairs raise on the back of his neck.

“Get on the bed.” Grantaire’s voice is dark with arousal, and Jehan hastens to obey, affectations of graceful composure falling by the wayside as he pushes himself backwards on the mattress, skirts in disarray around his hips. Grantaire wastes no time in pursuing him, caging him in as he straddles Jehan’s waist and pins his delicate wrists to the pillow with one hand. Jehan is exposed, vulnerable, and almost impossibly hard; he writhes under Grantaire’s strong grip, self-consciousness forgotten, hips bucking up frantically, involuntarily, seeking for friction where there is none to be found. Grantaire laughs, low and husky, and Jehan knows that he shouldn’t be greedy, knows that patience and modesty are – in theory, at least – qualities that are ultimately rewarded with gratification, but he cannot suppress the needy, capricious whine that escapes his throat in response to Grantaire’s teasing.

“Be patient,  _mon cher_.” Grantaire’s words are lightly mocking, but his voice is noticeably strained, and he is moving backwards as he speaks, until he is rocking his hips slowly back and forth over Jehan’s barely clothed erection. Jehan is in the process of falling apart beneath him, trembling and whimpering as Grantaire rubs himself tortuously up against his groin. “ _Grantaire…_ ”

“It pleases me when you say my name like that,” Grantaire pants with a wolfish grin, hand tightening around Jehan’s wrists as he grinds their erections together. Jehan simply squirms in response, silently urging Grantaire to quicken his pace, feeling the slow coil of heat in the pit of his stomach that heralds his rapidly approaching orgasm. Mere seconds before he is pushed irrevocably over the edge, Grantaire stops his movements, raising his hips abruptly and eliciting a mumbled, incoherent protest from Jehan’s pouting mouth. Grantaire’s answering smirk is met with a disappointed frown but he pays it no mind, instead releasing Jehan’s wrists to unfasten his trousers, pushing them down his thighs and to the floor with one swift motion.

Jehan lifts his head earnestly, hungry gaze travelling down Grantaire’s naked body, settling on the hard cock jutting out from his pelvis, surrounded by a thatch of dark hair. Grantaire smiles gently at the look on Jehan’s face, a combination of eagerness and trepidation, and sits back on his haunches, awaiting a reaction he knows is coming. Sure enough, within a short few seconds, Jehan is pushing himself upright, hesitant but willing as he prostrates himself before Grantaire. One small hand wraps itself around the solid base of Grantaire’s cock, squeezing lightly as it twitches in time with his pulse. Grantaire gasps, a cut-off sound that rolls into a ragged moan when Jehan’s hot, wet mouth descends over the head of his erection, bobbing slightly as his lips slide smoothly down its length. For all Jehan’s timidity, his stammering and his blushes, he does not shy away from the act of giving or receiving physical pleasure, revelling in the soft sighs and harsh moans he can coax forth with tender ministrations, the wondrous exaltations of joy he can produce with a talented tongue and a firm grip. Pleased by Grantaire’s murmured praises, he dedicates himself to the task at hand with uncommon fervour, his heart full of simple unfettered sentiment. After a minute or two, he releases Grantaire’s cock with his hand, gripping hold of his hipbones and relaxing his throat entirely, letting the man thrust freely into his mouth. Grantaire profanes under his breath, his hand coming to rest on Jehan’s head as he fucks deep into the soft heat of his mouth, moaning loudly as Jehan’s throat constricts involuntarily around him. All of a sudden, his fingers tighten, and he pulls Jehan’s head up using the fierce grip he has on his hair, knowing the pleasure the younger man derives from even the slightest hint of pain.

Jehan is debauched as he is raised off of Grantaire’s cock, his plump lips a fierce scarlet, blue eyes hazy and heavy-lidded, hair mussed and tangled. Grantaire takes a moment to appreciate the sight before gripping Jehan’s shoulder, turning him around and pressing him firmly down into the bedding. With one hand he brusquely pushes up Jehan’s petticoats until his bare buttocks – pale and fleshy, just like a woman’s – are revealed, then inserts a thick knee between his legs, forcing them apart. Jehan is slightly reticent, still, so Grantaire dips down, separating his cheeks to lick roughly over his tight hole, again and again and _again_ until Jehan is a whimpering mess, rutting desperately against the sheets and mewling into the crook of his elbow, the sweetest noise ever to have graced Grantaire’s ears. His whining increases in volume as Grantaire roughly cups one buttock, kneading with force as his blunt nails leave ragged marks in the pale skin, scratches that stretch from his hip to his tender inner thigh. Eventually, Grantaire withdraws his mouth from the most intimate of locations, but only distances himself from Jehan enough to insert his pulsating cock between soft, milky-white thighs, which tighten instinctively around him. Grantaire groans, a deep growl of pleasure, as he begins to thrust forwards, cock brushing against the underside of Jehan’s scrotum with every forwards stroke. Jehan is flat against the bed, unable to move under Grantaire’s weight except to rub against the mattress, so there is no room for either of them to manoeuvre a hand between his body and the sheets in order to play with his pretty cock, but Jehan’s uninhibited wails suggest that no such action is necessary. Regardless, Grantaire rears back slightly, just enough to slip a hand down the curve of Jehan’s buttock and slide a spit-slick finger knuckle-deep into his tight heat. Jehan cries out, an unrestrained expression of passion, his entire body seizing up and bucking back against Grantaire, and then he is coming all over the damp sheets, body shuddering in great jerks throughout the duration of his orgasm. The spasmodic tightening of his thighs around Grantaire’s cock is enough, almost  _too much_  for him, and he follows Jehan over the edge with a hoarse shout, pumping shot after shot of pearly white semen across the perfect pallor of his lightly-freckled thighs.

His orgasm completed, Grantaire collapses over Jehan’s back, regaining his breath for a moment or two before rolling to the side. Jehan, in turn, curls up against his sweat-dampened side, dainty fingers stroking sleepily through the curls of dark hair that adorn Grantaire’s chest. They fall asleep like this, Grantaire keeping Jehan warm as the younger man’s hand rests gently over his breast, drawing comfort from his steady heartbeat.  And although Jehan knows that the heart beneath his fingertips beats not for him, but for another feminine, golden-haired, azure-eyed man, he is – for now – content.

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr URL is jehancombefeyrac. Thanks for reading!


End file.
